


The Flesh

by thinskinnedcalciumsipper



Category: Hellsing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinskinnedcalciumsipper/pseuds/thinskinnedcalciumsipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>takagi yumiko love i wrote when i was like 14, featuring dadly!anderson and absolutely bizarre prose i specialized in as a hypersexual kid, uhh enjoy???? rated for frank bodily descriptions, weird power dynamcics</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flesh

The witching hour found Alexander Anderson where he could be found frequently in the evenings of the past twenty years, in the water room of the infirmary which had come to be specially reserved for these twilit occasions, attending with a sputtering candle the prone form of a maiden, snow white, contained in glass coffin of porcelain and perfumed water, still as stone.

Anderson knew this body better than his own -- so small, astonishingly small, white as snow, white as lilies, white as the moon, these filiform fingers and pink toetips tucked in sleep, this gown of soft black hair cast in a reptilian glisten in the mute pink candle light filtered through the spotted fragrant water, the bisque buttock hovering over the gullet of ceramic basin as angels must hover in the infinite space of heaven.

This lovely little body he had tended for twenty years in its fits of infidelity, in its intense illnesses, the brow he blotted perspiration and fever dreams from, the hands the size of dolls hands he had held and caught and stroked and slapped the wrists of, the depth of breasts and bottom and spots of downy feminine fur which were once not even an mirage on the horizon, the secret center where he could sometimes smell a baby egg blossom, this entire tiny female form was a labor of love, the labor of his life, with her sister and brother.

She was not pretty, this plain little lady with billows of black hair like rising ravens, stuttering and stumbling, matronly and infantile, but to Alexander Anderson, as to all parents, looking down on the sad calligraphy of her shuddering eyelashes recounting dismal dreams, no more beautiful creature stood upon God's creation.

Yumiko wiggled a little; she wheezed, she winced, her moon-smooth brow puckered as she suffered in her sleep. Anderson passed his titanic palm across her face and with a hiccup she nestled back into the tentacles of her hair, into his two hands. Her round daisybright fingernails he rubbed clean of rubified clots of coagulate gore. He soothed with the heel of his palm the purpled curve of her shoulder, the distressed scarlet rumple that disrupted her breast.

He looked very intently to not see her indecency, certainly, but more importantly, to not see the clutter of old wounds infecting the baby-pink blushed tummy and pubis, the vale of discolored collapse eclipsing her stomach button, the cuts up the thighs tallying unendurable hours, sunbursts of burns, the white word "cunt" carved vertically along her opalescent perineum. In a way, these were less civil for him to see than her mere nudity.

Passing over these disfigurements gently, lightly, fearfully, he recalled as always with painful precision the pitch of Yumiko's scream, the evil velocity and color of her sick, the graceful descending arch of her faint like a black swan meeting the water surface upon awakening, saturated in blood, with a shard of bone at the corner of her mouth - frightened and confused, a kitten turned out onto the freeway, afflicted with the shock of waking in wounds, turning to him, looking to him for decision, for decency, crying, crying, crying.

"Father?" Heinkel stood in the infirmary proper, beyond the closed boundary of the dark contained cocoon.

"She is well," he reported softly, "she is not very hurt. She's sleeping. She's clean." In fact, he had drained and refilled the bath four times until the water ran clear from Yumiko's hair. He had counted.

"May I come in?" Heinkel asked from beyond the door, and Anderson, recalling the intensity and particular appetite with which the petite paladin considered Yumiko's nudity when before permitted to nurse her told her gently no, and please see that Yumiko's bed be prepared for her if it wasn't already, and he would dress and deliver the unwell little woman himself.

Yumiko stirred a little when he lifted her, and as she lay in a slurry of sticky limbs in his lap to be rubbed dry her eyes fluttered open like pale butterflies alighting, like ghosts in the smear of oily dark.

"I'm hurt," came her pitiful voice, her tiny and childish voice, garbled about tears bubbling up, which pulled a thread stitched in Anderson's breast. Pitifully, she reached for him. He rearranged her small skull on the cushion of his shoulder and kissed a fistful of her lovely hair.

"I know, child," he soothed, and ensconced the softened supple substance of her sighing thighs in the towel down. Like a babe he bundled and bore her up - compared to him, she was only that. "Shhh, shhh, shhh."

"Help."

"I am helping. I am here."

"Father," she cried, unseeing in her sickness, her sadness, in the veil of dark he dressed her in -- her infirm cry, shrill and shy, the cry that could never darken, mature, never become a woman's cry to him, exactly the cry of the child he lifted from the mess of debris and destroyed human, from the fires of Catholic retribution, exactly the cry of the anointed infant baptized in blood he descended from his wrath to console a hundred years ago, a million years ago -- old though he was, Anderson felt he could never be old enough to remember a time without his children.

"Father," she cried in the dark, but who cried, and to whom she cried, Anderson did not know.


End file.
